


Run for the hills

by lunasenzanotte



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Atlético Madrid, Consent Issues, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Guilt, M/M, Post-Match, Real Madrid CF, Rituals, Rival Sex, Rivalry, Smut, Some Plot, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-12-07 01:36:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18228140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunasenzanotte/pseuds/lunasenzanotte
Summary: They lose to Atlético, and it hurts like hell, but it’s different for Sergio. The rest of the guys get to go home, have a beer or go straight to bed, they get the opportunity to at least try to forget about the match. But Sergio, with the least minutes and generally the rookie of the team, is the prize for the rival club’s captain, and he’s not allowed to forget about their loss until the ritual is over.





	Run for the hills

**Author's Note:**

> I know that this pairing is probably a crime against humanity, I just felt that Griezmann would be perfect for this (in my head, at least, he really is the perfect bastard for this).
> 
> It happens after no particular match, so don't seek too much canon in this. I don't write canon. It's a canon-like AU, probably.

They lose to Atlético, and it hurts like hell, but it’s different for Sergio. The rest of the guys get to go home, have a beer or go straight to bed, they get the opportunity to at least try to forget about the match. But Sergio, with the least minutes and generally the rookie of the team, is the prize for the rival club’s captain, and he’s not allowed to forget about their loss until the ritual is over.

He’s heard stories from the guys from other teams, the gloating of the captains, but he doesn’t know how much of it is true. He hopes that they were exaggerating, for his own sake. He doesn’t know if he’s ready to crawl in front of the Atlético captain, beg for punishment or thank him for it afterwards, or whatever usually happens in the hotel rooms.

But then, if none of it was true, then why would Sergio Ramos talk about looking forward to having Morata on his knees tonight, teaching him a few things about loyalty? Even if he was exaggerating, Sergio really wishes his captain had kept his mouth shut. Knowing that Morata is having the laugh of his life somewhere now definitely doesn’t help.

Those on the receiving end of the post-match treatment usually didn’t talk about it. Well, Odri said it wasn’t that bad. He never went into specifics and blushed like a schoolgirl, but insisted it was okay. So it should be okay. His teammates didn’t even look worried as he was leaving, just Luka mumbled “sorry, Regui”, but that’s Luka - he’s sorry for everything and everyone. Godín is no asshole, after all. Some captains are said to enjoy this more than the others, and Sergio hopes it will be quick. A formality. Tradition kept. No feelings attached.

He takes a deep breath and knocks on the door.

The door opens and what he sees takes his breath away, and ruins all hopes of this being just a formality. There’s Antoine Griezmann standing at the doorstep, wearing the hotel bathrobe, with the belt attached more than leisurely.

“You’re early,” he comments. “So impatient?”

Sergio blinks. “What-“

“Godín passed on the honor,” Griezmann says. “He doesn’t really enjoy these traditions.”

Neither does Koke, apparently, since Griezmann is the third captain and thus the two other had to defer to him. Sergio just nods, because he can’t really say anything to it. He decides nothing tonight.

Griezmann smells of shampoo or soap, Sergio gets the whiff of it as he’s passing him by. He highly doubts it’s the cheap stuff Griezmann advertises.

The room is quiet and impersonal, there’s nothing on the table and the bed is still made. It has no other purpose than being the place for their meeting. Sergio wonders if Griezmann is actually going to sleep here after he… after they…

“It’s waiting for you,” Griezmann smirks and nods towards the bathroom door.

The jersey is hanging on the door knob. One of the generic first kit ones, no name on the back. There’s a story that Raúl González once had his prize’s name printed on the jersey. Sergio is grateful that Griezmann lacks the passion for details.

He’s desperately trying to ignore Griezmann’s hungry gaze roaming over his body as he sheds his clothes, putting them on the armchair, and pulls the jersey over his head. It feels better than he thought. The world doesn’t collapse or anything. _It’s just a shirt, after all,_ he tells himself, _and if Griezmann gets off on this stuff, then he’s sick and weird._

Griezmann doesn’t look like it turns him on that much, though. There’s amusement in his eyes as he takes Sergio’s image in, and it’s slowly starting to get to Sergio. Griezmann walks over to the giant wardrobe in the corner of the room and opens it, revealing a full-length mirror on the backside of the door. Sergio gulps. _Not that._

“Come here,” Griezmann says and outstretches his hand to Sergio.

Sergio walks closer, but ignores the hand. The more time he gets without Griezmann touching him, the better. Griezmann still grips his shoulders and makes him stand still in front of the mirror. It feels… weird. Not right. Off. The more he looks at his reflection, the more it sinks in. His own reflection is mocking him. _You don’t deserve the white tonight,_ it tells him, _you don’t deserve to have the right badge over your heart tonight. You didn’t defend it enough._

He’s almost grateful when Griezmann turns him to face him, and pushes him to his knees. He’s lost the bathrobe somewhere, and Sergio doesn’t know when it happened.

“You know what I want, pretty boy,” he drawls and runs his hand through Sergio’s hair.

Sergio does. He would be surprised if this _wasn’t_ a part of the thing. He licks his lips and opens his mouth obediently.

Griezmann doesn’t seem to be in a rush, he takes his time just looking down at Sergio, running his fingers through his hair and over the curve of his lips, holding his chin firmly with his other hand and letting him drool like a dog. When he finally feeds his cock to him, Sergio lets out a moan that almost sounds like he’s grateful for it.

“Look at yourself,” Griezmann orders and turns Sergio’s head a bit to the side.

Sergio feels like he will die of shame. But he can’t say no to anything Griezmann wants from him tonight. Well, technically, he could, but he wouldn’t hear the end of it then, both from his teammates and the Atléticos. Once they lost, and he’s the prize, and traditions should be kept.

“It suits you really well,” Griezmann says. “You look pretty. Especially like this, on your knees, sucking my cock like I’m your captain. I bet you get on your knees for Ramos like this pretty often. Maybe not only him.”

Sergio wants to protest, but for obvious reasons, he can’t. Griezmann knows what moments to choose for his trash talk. He lowers his eyes, cheeks burning and eyes stinging. Griezmann clacks his tongue disapprovingly.

“You’ll look at yourself, or up at me. The choice is yours, but no looking down.”

Sergio lifts his eyes and locks them with Griezmann’s icy blue. It’s definitely the better option. Griezmann smirks and touches his face. He looks strangely composed, like he’s already thinking about his next move. Apparently, Sergio is not good enough to rob him of his ability to think. It’s hard to please when he doesn’t know what pleases the other one, and Griezmann is not giving him any hints. Doesn’t pull his hair, doesn’t speed up, he just lets Sergio do his thing. Sergio doesn’t even know if he wants to please. He just guesses that the sooner he pleases Griezmann, the sooner this will be over.

But just when he thinks that he’s getting hold of it, that he’s starting to read him somehow, Griezmann squeezes his shoulder and pushes him away.

Sergio sits on his heels, hands gripping the hem of the jersey, as he doesn’t know what else to do with them, and just blinks in confusion. Griezmann plops down on the wide bed and looks at him, stroking his cock lazily.

“Come here,” he purrs.

Sergio is not sure about the rules, so he shuffles forward on his knees. Griezmann waves his hand impatiently. “That’s not necessary,” he says. “I’m not into that shit.”

Well, that’s a relief. Sergio scrambles up and walks up to the bed hesitantly, like he’s afraid Griezmann will eat him alive. He looks hungry enough.

“Here,” Griezmann repeats, patting the bed.

Sergio climbs on the bed, unsure about what to do next. Griezmann doesn’t move. Then it hits him. _Oh_.

“You… want me to…” he starts.

A smile appears on Griezmann’s lips. “What do you think I want you to do?”

Sergio swallows, but his mouth feels completely dry. “You want me to… ride you?”

“Clever boy,” Griezmann grins and takes hold of his arm to support him, as the bed is too soft, mattress dipping under Sergio’s knees as he climbs over the Frenchman.

Griezmann doesn’t rush him, lets him go at his pace. As Sergio finally lowers himself down on his cock, Griezmann slips for the first time, biting on his lower lip and hissing quietly before he recollects himself. Sergio feels strangely satisfied.

Griezmann’s hands slide down Sergio’s sides and then he takes his hands, casually, entwines their fingers as if he wants to somehow anchor Sergio. Sergio stares at him, waiting for an explanation, but it doesn’t come. Griezmann just raises his brows and Sergio starts to move because staying still is too uncomfortable right now.

“Are you always this quiet?” Griezmann asks. “I imagined you’d be the noisy type.”

Sergio doesn’t answer, concentrating on his breathing and the rhythm of his movements. He doesn’t like the gasps that are starting to escape him, but his body is finally warming up and he can’t help himself.

Griezmann pushes himself up and then wraps his arms around Sergio, pulling him closer. For a moment, he’s grateful for the jersey on his body, no matter what color it is, because it’s a barrier between his body and Griezmann’s. He has Sergio in his lap now, there’s not an inch of their bodies that’s not touching, and Sergio can feel his lips moving against the sensitive part of his ear as he talks. 

“Look at you,” he says. “Taking it so good. Such a good boy. Taking one for the team.”

This time, Sergio whimpers. Griezmann isn’t hurting him, on the contrary, he’s as gentle and attentive as he can possibly be, and it’s just what makes Sergio so mad. He’s hurting nothing but his pride. That hurts, but the rest feels _so good_. It feels good to be good. Griezmann’s arms are wrapped around his waist, fingers pressing in his flesh right where the hem of the jersey meets the skin.

Then he grabs him by the chin and forces him to lift his head from where he’s tucked it against his shoulder.

“If you want this to be over, you need to put some effort into it,” he says and bites down on Sergio’s neck almost playfully, making him jump up.

Only then Sergio realizes that Griezmann has never changed the rhythm, has never pushed him down on his cock, he has let him move at his own pace. Given that Sergio was trying not to please himself too much, he really didn’t put much effort into it. 

“Or you need help?” Griezmann asks, an amused smirk tugging at his lips.

Sergio lets out a broken sound and half-collapses against Griezmann’s chest, leaning on him for support. Griezmann clacks his tongue again, reprimanding him. “You have to say it,” he says. “Look at me and say it.”

Sergio grips Griezmann’s shoulders and pulls back, facing him. Griezmann’s eyes look somehow darker now, more cobalt blue than the icy color they had before. “I…” Sergio breathes out. “Please…”

“Please what?” Griezmann asks, cupping his cheek. “Tell me. Tell your captain.”

_Wrong. Just wrong._

“Please… help me.”

“Try again.”

A tear rolls down Sergio’s cheek as he whispers: “Please, help me… captain.”

Griezmann wraps his hand around Sergio’s cock, cold and foreign and just _wrong_. He can do wonders with it, though. He sets a rhythm with his hand and his cock, hard and fast, and Sergio just falls apart. Griezmann slides two fingers in his mouth and chuckles when Sergio starts sucking on them. “That’s it,” he praises him. “That’s a good boy. Can you cum for me now?”

Sergio does his best to nod, and then he screws his eyes shut. He comes all over Griezmann’s stomach, and barely notices that Griezmann has reached his climax as well, but he couldn’t care less.

Griezmann helps him down, guides him into a safer position to catch his breath. Sergio lowers his head on one of the smaller pillows, breathing in the impersonal smell of the detergent. Somehow, it helps him calm down a little.

He pushes himself up when he trusts his body enough, and looks at Griezmann. Somehow, he knows that this is not all.

“You made a mess, pretty boy,” Griezmann smiles and sprawls on the pillows lazily. “Clean it.”

Oh. _Oh._

He feels Griezmann’s eyes on him as he shuffles on the bed. He guesses that Griezmann is testing the water, pushing his boundaries and trying how far he can go before Sergio cracks, but he’s determined not to crack. Not to give him another win, another satisfaction.

He lets his lips slide down Griezmann’s chest. He tastes skin and sweat and soap. He lifts his eyes as he gets to the spatter. Griezmann is watching him intently, a sparkle in his eyes. “Stick out your tongue,” he says.

Sergio wants to die. His cheeks are burning and his skin is prickling, making him want to crawl out of it. He sticks out his tongue. Licks. Swallows. Again. Again. He sits on his heels when he’s done, wipes his mouth and looks at Griezmann.

“Kiss me,” Griezmann says.

Sergio stares at him. It feels surreal, it makes his head spin. Such a simple request, and still it feels like Griezmann has just asked the most obscene thing from him. Simple request. He should be able to do it.

He can’t do it.

He shakes his head, holding Griezmann’s gaze and waiting for the consequences.

“Fine,” Griezmann says calmly. “Then we’re done here.”

It takes Sergio long seconds to understand that he means it. That his first refusal ends the ritual. He’s quite sure Griezmann knew he would refuse to do this, and kept the request for the last.

He climbs down the bed. His legs feel kind of stiff and wobbly, but he makes it to the bathroom and closes the door behind him. He sits on the edge of the bathtub and stares at the tiles under his feet. White.

He rips off the jersey, walks to the washbasin and splashes cold water in his face. He avoids his reflection in the mirror above the washbasin. He doesn’t want to look at himself now. Possibly never again.

He wets a towel and wipes himself down quickly. He could take a shower, but he doesn’t want to stay in the room longer than necessary. Then he returns to the room and puts on his clothes. He picks up the jersey he had brought from the bathroom. He doesn’t quite know what to do with it. He holds it out to Griezmann.

“You get to keep it,” Griezmann smirks.

Sergio doesn’t want to keep it. He wants to rip it to pieces and burn it, or possibly strangle Griezmann with it first. It must show on his face enough for Griezmann to see it.

“Hey,” he says, and the smug expression and the mocking tone are gone in a fraction of a second as he walks up to him and offers him his hand. “No hard feelings, eh?”

Sergio nods and leans into the half-embrace, but his mind isn’t really there. No hard feelings, sure. Nobody forced him to do this. He could have stopped this at any moment. That’s why he hates himself. He didn’t.

 

* * *

 

Cold air hits him in the face as he walks out of the hotel. It feels like waking up from a dream. He can just go home now. He should just go home.

Why he finds himself in front of Sergio Ramos’ house, he doesn’t know.

Maybe he shouldn’t go there. Maybe he shouldn’t even show his face to him now, maybe he should dig himself a hole and hide in it.

He still rings the bell.

The confusion in Sergio Ramos’ face quickly changes into a worried expression as he sees him. He must look terrible.

“What…”

“Griezmann,” he says, and feels his lips shake.

His captain looks mad, and concerned, and hurt, and it’s killing him.

“I’m sorry,” Sergio sobs and throws himself in his arms.

“Sorry for what?” the older man asks softly. Sergio can’t quite remember him ever talking in this tone.

“I… I know I shouldn’t have… I… I betrayed you, I failed the team, I…”

“No,” his captain stops him. “You didn’t fail anyone. Stop thinking about it, whatever happened there, stop thinking about it. It’s over.”

Sergio shakes his head desperately. _It’s not over, it will never be over, it will never…_

“Regui,” he hears above him, and there’s a hand in his hair, stroking comfortingly. “It doesn’t matter, none of it matters.”

There’s warm air on his face now. They are inside, on the sofa in the living room. Sergio has no idea how it happened. His sense of time and space seems to be strangely altered.

“Next time I swear…” he whispers.

“There will be no next time. Because we’re not fucking losing to them again.”

Sergio smiles and wipes off his tears.

He falls asleep with his face tucked in his captain’s chest.


End file.
